Sitting in a worn camping chair
Silent like the grey mist in the air I cannot see
Moisture clinging to the trees
And roots in the darkness -
The pops and cracks of the fire in front of me.
My boots and face hot to the touch
And the starkness
Of a thousand cold whispers behind my back
Drawing my focus from burning embers, and
Smokey gasps of heated gases that calm and temper
The entirety of my whole.

Arrange me
Lord.
Take my
Pieces
And place
Them back together
Again.

Somehow I fell
Somewhere I lost you.

I can't hold my breath now -
Will the water
Rushing in
My lungs burn more?
Will my hope
Roll in the undertow.

Father you left
Me light
And a thousand words to write -
Sounds crazy

I forgive you ran
One night
And your tight-grip jaw
Froze dreadful fright.
Was I lazy?

So like you I
Run in the dark full night
Unless the moon runs full
Above my stage spot light
Following me until
I am exposed.

There are moments
When the wonder of God's creation
Catches the eye and you can only stop
And experience joy.

Your tale about the bullhead awakened me.
I stood on the seawall and set a weight on my line.
I thought about you out on the water alone fishing
Your quiet spot on Mullet Creek.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the brine,
The warm bait, and pepper plants as you
Rocked with the rhythm of ripples slapping
The barnacle coated bulkhead. The oarlocks
Snapped and resonated in your slow sway.

I watched your steady hands grip both the croaking
Fish and pitted pliers and quickly pull the hook free
As his spiny dorsal fin caught your knuckle.
You uttered a sharp ****** and placed the ****** finger
In your mouth.

I imagined my home an ocean
And my bed a ship
Tossed in storm
And the breakers screamed to the coastline
Changing the beach texture and form.

During the moments of silence
I scribbled little notes of hope
On torn paper and positioned them along
The worn paths
and Defensive Walls.

In front of the coffee filter
"give each other hugs"

On the end table  - on top of the Bible
"stop yelling"

Little pin points of light scattered in the darkness
Like children's eyes watching.

I might as well have planted
Seashells in the gritty shallow surf hoping
They would drag their feet in the sand and
Stumble upon a fighting conch or cockle.